


where all the follies led

by pavingnewpaths



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller, Troy (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pavingnewpaths/pseuds/pavingnewpaths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus tries to reconcile his love for Achilles with the knowledge of Achilles' prophesied fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I'd like to thank my wonderful beta, [capital-punk](http://capital-punk.tumblr.com/). As well as [rainbow-femme](http://rainbow-femme.tumblr.com//) and [zachabels](http://zachabels.tumblr.com/) for the read throughs. Any remaining mistakes are solely my own!
> 
> I've been working on this for so long that I thought it was bound to become a perpetual WIP, but I've finally reached the point where an End is in Sight and can therefore post with confidence. Inspiration has been drawn from numerous sources and so this has turned into a not-quite-retelling-but-not-quite-anything-else of the sources. I'm trying to pawn it off as a Patroclus/Achilles fic. 
> 
> Other notes: Rated E for later chapters, characters tagged are not my own, and the title is from "Down By the Water" by The Decemberists. Estimated at 20k/four chapters, but that's tentative.

It’s just past midnight, and the sounds of raucous laughter and drunken celebration have dissipated into idle chatter. Most of the men have retreated back to their tents; others passed out around the bonfires, too drunk to make it that far.  
   
A lean man that Patroclus recognizes as one of Odysseus’ soldiers raises his chalice, expression solemn and far away. “Nine years of battle,” he says, words slurring. “ _Nine_.” He looks around, his lids heavy and mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “The taste of victory has become bittersweet, my friends.”  
   
There’s a long moment of silence, the warm lethargic night and alcohol filled bellies making the men slow. Then, across from Patroclus, Odysseus yells, “Oh shut your trap, you drunken cretin!” and tosses his own chalice towards the man. It lands several feet away from him and the laughter that follows is lazy and wine-easy. It’s times like this that Patroclus knows he will look back on fondly.  
   
Times like this, with Achilles pressed to his side, warm and pliant; the fire illuminating his features, the shadows making his angles even sharper. And most memorably -- the lazy grin spread across his face as he watches his countrymen with pride and fondness apparent in his expression.  
   
Achilles’ countenance is rarely ever so unguarded, and Patroclus knows it’s because of the alcohol. He himself is far more sober than the rest of them, never having quite developed an affinity for wine. He’s tipsy though, recognizes the subdued feeling of gratification that has taken home low in his belly.  
   
He shivers when a gust of wind sends a cold chill through his body and Achilles turns to him, grin easing into a smaller, more private smile. “Cold?” he asks, already draping an arm over Patroclus’ shoulder.  
   
“Yes, it’s a chilly night,” he says, emphasizing it by burrowing further into Achilles' side.  
   
“I don’t feel it,” he shrugs, bringing his chalice to his lips and taking a large sip of wine.  
   
“That’s because you’re drunk,” Patroclus smiles, leaning forward to pluck the cup away. Achilles makes an indignant sound but lets go without protest. He empties the goblet, refills it with water, and hands it back.  
   
Patroclus spends the better part of the next hour following that same pattern; he listens to Achilles speak, low and inarticulately, about one thing or another to Odysseus, and when he notes that he’s finished off his water, he’ll refill it.  
   
Eventually, Achilles sobers up enough to be able to walk back to their own tent.  
   
“My lord,” a young boy, one of Ajax’s couriers, is standing in front of their tent with a large basket at his feet when they arrive. He bows and says, “My captain sent me to thank you for your interference earlier today.”  
   
Patroclus hadn’t been there, but he’d heard. An argument had broken out amongst Ajax’s men; the tension that had been brewing between those whose restlessness began to border on treason, and those who were fiercely loyal, finally coming to a head. Achilles had been there, had managed to dispel the crowd and calm the men before the dispute turned physical.  
   
It was not a heroic act, nor one that even warranted acknowledgement, but Patroclus knew that Ajax was fond of Achilles, and the feeling was reciprocated.  
   
“Euryalus, yes? That is your name?” Achilles asks, and Patroclus watches as the boy’s eyes widen, and he nods quickly. “Tell him there was certainly no need, but it is appreciated nonetheless.”  
   
Achilles picks up the basket, and turns to the boy, “You do not usually fight with the infantry.” It’s not a question. “You fought well today.”  
   
The boy gapes. And once he collects himself, he beams. “My lord,” he says, bowing and retreating quickly; eager to gloat to his comrades, Patroclus presumes.  
   
Patroclus is laughing as he follows Achilles into their tent.  
   
“What are you laughing for?” Achilles asks, dropping the basket and collapsing onto the cot.  
   
“Nothing,” Patroclus shakes his head, lighting a single candle and setting it on the ground beside Achilles. He stands, eyes raking over Achilles’ lounging figure, taking in his comfortable disposition: hands behind head, legs spread, and eyes closed. “It’s just that, to them, praise from you is equivalent to that from Zeus himself.”  
   
Achilles opens his eyes and levels him with a look of mock affront. He sits up on his elbows, “To them? And what of you, Patroclus? Praise from me means nothing to you?”  
   
Patroclus smirks and gestures to himself, “To me? To me praise from you may as well be coming from the mouth of a horse.”  
   
He’s lying through his teeth, of course, but he’s not about to admit that. Especially not when the comment makes Achilles sputter.  
   
He doesn’t get to bask in his glory for very long. Before he can even register what’s happened, Achilles has already gripped his ankle and dragged him down onto the cot.  
   
They wrestle clumsily, each fumbling to gain any sort of leverage. Predictably, it’s Achilles who manages to get his knees on either side of Patroclus’ waist and his hands pinned above his head.  
   
“Still feel inclined to liken me to a filthy animal?” he asks, digging his knees into Patroclus’ side.  
   
“Get off me, you massive varmint. You’re crushing me!” he protests, trying to sound angry but he knows that his massive grin betrays him.  
   
Achilles leans down close enough that Patroclus can smell the wine on his breath, can see the purple staining his lips.  
   
“Why should I?” he mutters, and it’s hoarse and low and too much, too quickly.  
   
Patroclus’ smile falters, and he immediately stops writhing. He clears his throat and huffs out a breathless “ _Achilles_.” It’s a warning.  
   
It’s quiet, and Patroclus wants to shut his eyes, wants to turn away, but he can’t, not with Achilles’ gaze so intently focused on him. _It’s the wine_ , Patroclus thinks,  _it’s only the wine_.  
   
“Achilles, stop,” he says again, more firmly, trying to free his hands. It seems to work.  
   
Achilles jolts, as if scalded, and lets go of his hands. He moves off of Patroclus, settling beside him with an air of nonchalance that makes Patroclus grit his teeth in frustration. He twists to put out the candle, and uses the movement as an excuse to sleep with his back facing Achilles.  
   
It’s only minutes before Achilles’ breathing evens out, leaving Patroclus alone with his rampant thoughts.  
   
He _hates_ this.  
   
He hates the way tension builds around them for months, corroding both of their willpower, until they reach a breaking point.  
   
The first time it had happened -- so many years ago that it concerns Patroclus that he remembers it at all, let alone so vividly – Patroclus had given in. He’d leaned forward, expectant, and Achilles had shoved him, hard. He didn’t speak to Patroclus for days after the fact, and it was the longest week of his life.  
   
It’s been a matter of push and pull since then, a game neither of them can seem to resist. Patroclus however, always makes sure that it never gets too far, for fear of Achilles pushing him away for good.  
   
He knows that Achilles depends on him to keep them both in check. He understands the semantics too -- why it needs to be him and the fact that there’s too much at stake. But some days – days like this, when the only thing making Patroclus take action is the notion that Achilles isn’t completely sober -- Patroclus isn’t sure he can manage it for much longer. 

***

When Patroclus wakes the next morning, it feels a lot less like such and more like coming to after a blow to the head. He’s disoriented, but sentient enough for several thoughts to cross his mind at once, each vying for his attention.  
   
One; he, apparently – if his throbbing head and dry throat are anything to go by -- couldn’t hold his wine as well as he’d led himself to believe. Two; Achilles isn’t by his side, snoring and drooling as he usually is.  
   
Lastly, and concomitant to Thought Number Two, is that he’s saved from having to contemplate how to handle the awkward tension that would have resulted subsequent to the events of the previous night.  
   
He sits up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He decidedly does not want to think about the _why’s_ of any of the above, and instead accepts the first as a learning experience and the latter two as blessings from the Gods.  
   
It’s only after he’s washed his face and brushed his teeth, eaten some of the fresh fruit from Ajax’s gift basket, and gotten dressed and wrapped his scabbard around his waist, that Achilles’ absence begins to unsettle him.  
   
It’s not unusual, is the thing. He could be at a council meeting, he could be bathing, he could out be for a morning walk for all Patroclus knows, but that’s just _it_ – it’s the not knowing that bothers Patroclus.  
   
It’s absurd, and a bit overbearing, but over the years Patroclus has developed a sense of entitlement in all matters that involve Achilles. He mollifies the possessive nature of that notion by telling himself he’s earned it – he is Achilles’ comrade-in-arms, brother in everything but blood.  
   
He sighs aloud and tucks his sword into its sheath. He leaves the tent, hoping that a walk on the beach will rid him of the restless feeling that seems to have made a home in his bones last night. 

“Patroclus.”  
   
He turns, finds Eudoros smiling at him sheepishly, as if he’d been waiting for him to emerge from the tent flaps. He smiles back. Eudoros is Achilles’ second in command; if there had been anything important going on, surely he would’ve been by Achilles’ side, and not here.  
   
“Achilles wanted me to inform you that an unofficial meeting has been called. He did not want to wake you,” he says.  
   
“All right,” Patroclus holds his smile, trying not to let the relief that washes over him come across on his face. “If he returns before I do, let him know that I’ve gone for a swim.”  
   
Eudoros nods his assent and Patroclus makes his way down to the shore before taking a sharp right, heading towards the area of the beach that lies barren. It’s barred off from the ships by a massive rock, and Patroclus immediately feels more at ease. It’s quiet and -- not _hidden,_ per se -- but secluded. Patroclus presumed that it was never occupied because the men – homesick and wanting – were looking for anything but solitude.  
   
He’d first discovered it a few nights after they’d landed in Troy while looking for a flint. He’d abandoned his search then, opting instead to run back and drag Achilles to show him.  
   
The sun was setting into a Mediterranean orange horizon beyond the rocks, and Patroclus can still recall Achilles’ musky scent, the hard press of his stomach against his side, and the awed breaths that fanned out against his temple.  
  
It’s been nearly ten years since then, and it’s still one Patroclus’ fondest memories. Achilles had been much lankier then, softer around the edges. His voice had been serene, words laced with molasses when he turned to Patroclus and whispered, “It’s stunning,” with a hand settled at the small of his back. His smile was wide and bright, and Patroclus remembers having a difficult time looking away.  
   
Achilles has changed since then; he doesn’t give way to childlike naiveté and fleeting emotions. He’s just as tactile, but it’s always an arm around Patroclus’ shoulder or a firm grip on his neck, his touches never as soft and dexterous as they had been during their formative years.  
   
The exceptions, however, are what keep Patroclus hopeful. Nights like the last, where Achilles loses the semblance of patience and fortitude and relents, just enough, to remind Patroclus that he still matters in ways beyond his understanding.  
   
It might be easier, on both of them, if Achilles stopped all together. Patroclus would certainly be better off. If there were no lapses -- no glimmers of what they could be -- he could at least learn to cope and tamp down his emotions without expecting anything.  
   
But as it stands, those small moments take perch in his heart, they thrive and expand, become a scope of unrelenting _hope_ that Patroclus can’t help but cling to.  
He shakes himself of the nostalgia, instead looking out at the sea. The waves are gently lapping against the sun-warmed sand, the air is moist and carries the scent of salt in its gentle breeze, and the desire to meet the ocean becomes overwhelming.  
   
Patroclus shucks off his tunic and runs straight into the water, plunging as soon as he’s past the shallow front. He pushes back up towards the surface of the water, gearing all his focus on his form.  
   
It’s been a long time since he’s done this, and Patroclus has nearly forgotten how much he loved it. Swimming had been one of only two things that he immediately excelled at, back when they had been training with Chiron.  
   
The other was anything pertaining to medical treatment. That, however, had been largely due to Patroclus’ seemingly unwavering passion, rather than inherent talent. It was Achilles, after all, who’d taught him to clean and wrap a wound, but it was Patroclus whose lean figure and long limbs took to water better than most fish.

***

The sharp midday sun is beating on his back as he practices his strokes. He isn’t sure how long he’s been in the water, but the pleasant ache of sore muscles is beginning to spread through his calves and biceps.  
   
He flips onto his back, using his shoulder blades and extended limbs to swim towards shore. He pushes himself onto his feet and rubs the saltwater from his eyes. When he glances up, Achilles is leaning against the rock, watching him with an odd expression.  
   
“ _Zeus Almighty_ ,” Patroclus mutters, glad he’s too far out of Achilles’ line of vision for him to have caught his startled jolt. He shakes his hair out and makes his way out of the water.  
   
“How long have you been standing there?” he asks, jogging over to where Achilles is holding out his tunic for him.  
   
Achilles shrugs noncommittally, eyes raking over Patroclus’ body. It’s not particularly suggestive, but Patroclus can’t quite make anything of Achilles’ expression.  
   
He takes the tunic and shifts from one foot to the other, “What was the meeting for?” he asks, just to get rid of the peculiar countenance – the hard stare and twisted mouth -- that seems fixed on the younger man’s face.

Achilles’ face scrunches up, Patroclus laughs, and that’s all it takes for the awkward air to dispel.  
   
“A man came to Agamemnon to offer compensation – more than adequate compensation, mind -- in exchange for the return of his daughter who’d been captured as a slave hostage. Odysseus and I attempted to convince him to accept, but the pig-headed fool wouldn’t listen. Nothing unusual,” he shrugs again.  
   
“ _Mounds_ of gold and jewels, Patroclus – all discounted for one girl. You’d think the man had never seen a woman before – or a mare for that matter.”  
   
Patroclus chuckles, shaking his head as he tugs on his tunic. “What I would give to understand the inner workings of that man’s mind,” he mumbles, adjusting his belt.  
   
Achilles scoffs. “No more than the dirt off my shoe, I should hope,” and then, before Patroclus can respond, “What’ve you brought your sword to the beach for? Intent on combatting the fish?”  
   
Patroclus narrows his eyes, “You brought your sword,” he points out, gesturing at the intricately designed sheath resting comfortably at Achilles’ hip.  
   
“Agamemnon is unpredictable,” he says, and this time Patroclus is the one scoffing.  
   
“Hardly. Though, I understand your fear in his presence, Achilles, it’s alright to admit it,” Patroclus says, smirking. Achilles’ brows shoot up, and Patroclus has to struggle to stifle his laughter.  
  
“ _Fear?_ ” Achilles demands. His outrage is accompanied by a high lilt in his voice and Patroclus loses his composure. He doubles over laughing as he clutches his stomach.  
   
“I’ll show you fear, you fork-tongued dolt,” Achilles says, a sharp metallic sound resonating as he pulls his sword from its sheath.  
   
Patroclus is still laughing as he stumbles backwards, hands held out in front of him. “No, no, no, sorry, sorry,” he pleads between fits of laughter, “I take it back. _Achilles_.”  
   
Achilles swishes his sword back and forth in a fancy play, grinning far too wide. He taps Patroclus’ sword with the tip of his own, “Come on now. You’ve been spending too much time around Odysseus; full of empty words, you are.”  
   
“Oh, Zeus, Ares, _Hades_ ,” Patroclus rattles off, pulling his sword out as he tries to get his laughter under control.  
   
Achilles backs away, positions his sword, and with his free hand, motions for Patroclus to advance. Patroclus takes a deep breath, tightening his grip before bringing it down full force towards Achilles’ outstretched knee. It’s intercepted well before it’s destination, and Patroclus pulls it back before Achilles can use it as leverage.  
   
Achilles whirls his sword, and Patroclus’ eyes flicker to follow the quick motions.  
   
“I forgot how much of a show-off you are,” he says, leaning backwards to evade the swipe at his chest.  
   
“You mean you forgot how well-versed in combat I am,” he retorts, parrying the blow Patroclus aims at his shoulder. He counters it with a swift jab that Patroclus just narrowly misses.  
   
“ _Achilles_ , these aren’t practice swords!” he shouts.  
  
“So they aren’t. Better keep your eyes sharp then,” he says, grinning as he advances.  
   
Patroclus rolls his eyes, twisting his frame into an elegant inquartata -- foot back and torso bent back -- just as Achilles’ sword attempts to contact his right side. In a swift motion, too quick for his eyes to follow, Achilles changes hand, tapping him on his exposed back. “Point,” he says, backing up and returning to starting position.  
   
Patroclus growls and lunges forward, and Achilles dodges away with experienced finesse. He takes a few steps back and Patroclus idly wonders how even his retreats can be so graceful.  
   
“You need to spend more time on the battlefield and less in that medical tent, Patroclus. You’re getting rusty,” he mocks, just as Patroclus spins his sword twice, and drives it forward, tapping Achilles’ left hip.  
   
“What was that?” he asks, hand cupped around his ear, “I couldn’t hear you over the whirl of my sword.”  
   
They continue on like that, exchanging repartee and extravagant moves, until they’re both flushed and well out of breath.  
   
“What do you say we call a truce?” Patroclus says after a back and forth play that ends with Achilles tapping his chest for what must’ve been the third time.  
   
“A truce, huh?” Achilles says, driving his sword into the sand between his spread legs, hands resting on the bronze hilt.  
   
“Please. Everything is _aching_ ,” he whines, sliding his sword back into its sheath.  
   
Achilles chuckles as he mimics the action, “Well, lucky for your frail little body I haven’t eaten since dawn.” Patroclus clicks his tongue at the quip, but can’t muster up the energy to respond.  
   
Achilles slings an arm around his shoulder and Patroclus wraps his own around Achilles’ waist.  
   
They’re both winded and exhausted, and so they walk in a companionable silence as they head back towards the camp. It’s only after they’re a few tents from their own that Achilles clears his throat to speak.  
  
“I’d forgotten how good you are. At swimming, that is. You looked good. Back there,” he admits, and if Patroclus didn’t know Achilles he’d surely attribute the fragmented sentences and lack of eye contact to embarrassment.  
   
He does, however; inside out and for over fifteen years, and Achilles doesn’t get flustered.  
   
But he doesn’t give Patroclus a chance to respond; instead, he lets go and stops in front of Eudoros, who’s waiting by the entrance of their tent.  
   
He gives him an inquisitive look, and Eudoros grins.  
   
“My lord,” he says, “The widowed wife of Mynes awaits you. For your efforts at Lyrnessus yesterday,” and steps away from the entryway to the tent.  
   
Achilles heads inside, and Patroclus returns Eudoros’ acknowledging nod before following him.  
   
Achilles is by the water bowl, rinsing the sweat from his face. On the other side of the tent, a young woman is tied to a wooden post. Her hair is raven black and falls gracefully to the middle of her back. Her gaze is hard, but her eyes are bright blue and shining. She is _stunning_ , even with tattered clothing and sprigs in her hair.  
   
He vaguely registers Achilles saying something, but she meets his eyes at that moment, and Patroclus can’t quite look away.  
   
“ _Patroclus!_ ” He jolts, forcing himself to meet Achilles’ angry gaze. “Untie her,” he says.  
   
“Um,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck and crosses the room, falling to his knees beside her. She looks up at him through her lashes, and Patroclus gently undoes the knot. He tries to grasp her wrist to check for bruises, but she flinches away, and Patroclus quickly mumbles an apology.  
   
He looks up at Achilles for direction, but his back is turned away from them.  
   
“I’ll pitch her a tent?” he offers, tentatively, because _surely_ …  
   
“Achilles?”  
   
There’s a silent moment before he hums and makes a vague gesture with his hand that Patroclus assumes is a sign of assent. He stands, offering his hand to the girl. “Come,” he says. Her eyes dart from Achilles’ back and then to his hand, speculatively. “Come,” he says again, “You have nothing to fear.”  
   
She doesn’t take his hand, but stands and lifts the hem of her dress so it doesn’t trip her as she walks. 

***

Patroclus leaves the girl with Eudoros with strict instructions to let her bathe and find her a new set of clothes while keeping his hands and eyes to himself. He and another soldier, Isidoros, leave to fetch equipment for the tent. They’re hauling a large bundle of sheets and posts back when Isidoros grunts.  
   
“I do not understand,” he shakes his head, walking backwards. “I mean – the things I would do to bed her. What’s Achilles thinking, neglecting a thing like that?“  
   
“I don’t know. I don’t ask questions, I just follow orders,” Patroclus lies.  
   
Isidoros persists, “But doesn’t it make you wonder? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Achilles indulge – _oh_ ,” his eyes widen. “Do you think he’s… I mean… maybe, _you know_ .”  
   
Patroclus motions for him to set the load down. The area is vast and near the shore, and not far from where he and Achilles are positioned.  
   
“No, I don’t know. What are you on about, Isidoros?” he asks, as he begins rummaging through the pile.  
   
“Well, maybe he’s not quite…” he begins, and then settles on, “Functioning.”  
   
Patroclus stops and stands up slowly. He is thinner than Isidoros, but he’s also much taller, and his towering stance evidently unnerves the younger man. “Need I remind you that Achilles is your captain? I would watch myself if I were you. He is not the man I’d choose to spread rumors about.”  
   
“I-I wasn’t! I wouldn’t –“  
   
“Then _don’t_ ,” Patroclus cuts him off. “Now, stop your rambling and get to work.”  
   
Patroclus knows that it was curiosity rather than malice that spurred Isidoros’ words – if he’d doubted that for a second the man would have a dagger in his gut rather than a bruised ego – and yet, he can’t shake the vexation. 

***

By the time they’re finished, Patroclus is about ready to kill a man. He’s famished; hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and it’s nearing sundown. He’s covered in sand and dirt, drenched in his own sweat, and he’s torn his tunic.  
   
To top it off, Isidoros has been shooting him guilty glances since they’ve started, trying to catch his gaze to apologize.  
   
He’s lighting candles around the tent when the man fumbles over a start. “Patroclus, I –“  
   
“Don’t,” he says, setting the candle down and turning to face the man. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you, I know you intended no harm.”  
   
Isidoros nods. “Still, I have the utmost respect for Achilles, and I would never do anything to tarnish his reputation. I apologize.”  
  
Patroclus walks over to him and places a hand on his shoulder. He squeezes it before turning to assess the room. “I believe we’re done here. You can go fetch the girl and then retire. Thank you for your help.”

***

The girl pauses when she enters, seemingly surprised to find Patroclus leaning against a small table on the far right of the tent, biting into an apple from the bowl of fruit he’d brought for her.

She stands in the middle of the room, eyes scanning the area before coming to rest on him with an indiscernible expression. He crosses the distance between them, bowl held in his free hand. “Eat,” he insists, pushing the bowl into her hands.  
   
She takes the bowl and settles down onto the cot. Patroclus watches her pick at a bunch of grapes. He’s still mesmerized by her, and in ways that aren’t limited to her physical beauty. The poised manner in which she carries herself certainly lends itself to royal upbringing.  
   
“What is your name?” he asks, taking another bite of the apple. It’s ripe -- sweet, and it occurs to Patroclus that this could very well be from the batch of food they’d gathered when they ransacked her city.  
   
And it was _her_ city, wasn’t it? She is the wife – widow – of a prince, after all.  
   
“Briseis.”

Patroclus hums. “I’m sorry about your family,” he says.  
  
The seeming non sequitur makes her look up. She shakes her head and huffs out a breath, “No, you aren’t.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“You are not sorry. Do not pretend to be for my sake,” she says harshly, setting the bowl aside. “I don’t need your pity.”  
   
“It is not pity,” Patroclus says, his brows furrowed together. She ignores him, pressing on.  
   
“You’re a _brute_ ,” she exclaims, standing now, face full-blooded, twisted into a look of disgust and crimson with anger. “You’re a heartless brute. The lot of you are. Especially that barbaric captain of yours, may Zeus take his life!”  
   
Patroclus puts the apple down and steps forward.  
   
“Brute, you say? Would a brute bathe, dress, and feed a  _slave_ girl? Would a brute pitch her a tent?” Patroclus is seething, and any tender feelings he’d had for the girl suddenly dissipate. “If it hadn’t been for Achilles, you’d be a great deal worse off right now, girl. You should be on your knees, thanking him.”  
   
Briseis’ face crumbles. “ _Thank_ him?” she asks, her voice several octaves higher, breaking on the question. Tears well up in her eyes, threatening to spill down her rubicund complexion.  
   
“He killed my entire family,” she whispers. “My husband. My brother, mother, father…all dead – at the hands of that man. And you -- you want me to _thank_ him?”  
   
She’s staring at him incredulously, and her knees seem to buckle at that moment, as though the exhaustion of the last couple of days has finally caught up with her.  
   
Patroclus steps forward to catch her in his arms; they end up on their knees, Briseis sobbing into chest.  
   
“Oh, my fallen city, my family,” she whimpers, and Patroclus holds her tighter.  
   
“Shh,” he soothes, running a gentle hand through her curls. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and he means it this time. 

***

When Patroclus wakes, it takes him awhile to identify his surroundings. He’s got a mouthful of sweet scented hair and an armful of smooth curves. He blinks several times, and the events of the day flood back. He remembers falling asleep with Briseis in his arms, her cries softening into quiet snivels.  
   
He tries to lift his arm from beneath her grasp slowly and carefully, but she stirs anyway. She holds tighter and whispers a soft “Stay.”  
   
“I cannot,” he says, pulling away and sitting up. Through the open slit of the tent flap he can still see men milling about, the deep orange backdrop indicating that the sun is only just beginning to set on the horizon.  
   
Patroclus moves to stand, but Briseis sits up as well, holding his arm to stop him.  
   
“I’m sorry,” she says, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “I should not have said those things about you earlier. You are far from a brute.”  
   
“As is Achilles.”  
   
Briseis looks away from him, and Patroclus shifts onto his knees and leans forward. He puts his fingers beneath her chin, lifting until she meets his gaze. “He is not cruel, I swear to you. You would not be here if he were.”  
   
“Please do not take me for a fool,” she says. “I am not here because of Achilles’ kind heart.”  
   
Patroclus doesn’t respond, and her eyes bore into his. She takes the hand on her chin and holds it between her own.  
   
“Why am I here, Patroclus? He could have…” She breaks off, looking down at their joined hands. “Why?”  
   
“Achilles does not care for war spoils,” he lies, and even as he says them he’s aware of the absurdity of his words. He can feel the heat spread from his cheeks down to his neck.  
   
The look Briseis gives him is hurt rather than pointed, and it’s in that moment that Patroclus knows he can’t lie to her. She’s perceptive and she cares; a combination of traits that Patroclus knows is destined to corrode his resolve.  
   
Patroclus pulls his hand free to stand. Before he leaves, he leans down to place a soft kiss on her cheek.  
   
“Goodnight, Briseis.”

***

When he returns, Patroclus contemplates taking another quick dip in the ocean. He feels awful; hair matted and body covered in grime – he’s sure he smells of sweat and filth as well. In the end though, his stomach wins the battle of his concerns, and he ends up crouched over the pit outside the tent.  
   
“Ey!” He hears the shout before the footsteps. “Boy, go on ‘n call your Master out here.”  
   
Patroclus stands and faces the emissaries. The men are dressed in simple chitons, but are both broad and tall that the casual garments do nothing to undermine their presence. They sound and look rough, and if it weren’t for the thick Ithacan accents, Patroclus would not have dubbed them as Odysseus’ men.  
   
“What?” he asks, wiping his hands on his tunic and wondering if he’d heard the man correctly.  
   
“You deaf and dumb as well as you are ugly?” he asks. “Your Master. _Achilles_ ,” he enunciates.  
   
Patroclus lets out a surprised chortle, taking a few steps towards the men. “Listen, you ignorant oaf –“  
   
“ _Oaf_ , you say?” A firm hand clamps around his throat, cutting him off as he struggles against it. He gasps as the man tightens his hold and shoves him to the ground.  
   
Just as Patroclus regains his breath, a heavy foot comes down on his chest. The sudden pressure knocks the wind out of him again, and he starts wheezing. He tries to reach for his sword, but the lack of oxygen is making him feel disoriented and all he wants is to _breathe_ . He grabs the man’s ankle instead, in a futile attempt to dislodge him. “Not so mouthy now, huh?” the man says, chuckling crudely.  
   
The next few things happen so quickly that Patroclus feels dizzier after the fact.  
   
“What is this?”  
   
There’s a beat of silence, and Patroclus can’t see Achilles, but he can imagine the enraged look that flashes over his face as he takes in the scene.  
   
The pressure on his chest is gone almost immediately, and Achilles has his hands wrapped around the emissary’s throat. Patroclus fumbles to his feet, rubbing at his chest.  
   
The man looks petrified, and Patroclus only revels in it for a moment, before rationality takes over.  
   
He tugs at Achilles’ arm, his throat feels raw, and his voice is hoarse when he speaks. “It was a misunderstanding, Achilles. Let go,” he insists, against his primal urge to let Achilles strangle the man.  
   
Even with the combined efforts of Patroclus and the other emissary, it takes them several minutes to bring Achilles to reason. The man falls to the floor, gasping and red-faced.  
   
“Touch him or any one of my men again, and I will flay you alive,” Achilles threatens, spitting and kicking sand in the terror-stricken mans face. He shrugs off the grip Patroclus has on his arm and storms back into the tent.  
   
Patroclus looks around at the men who’d gathered to watch the scrimmage. “Away with you!” he shouts, and the men scatter.  
   
He rounds on the emissaries, gripping the collar of the man on the ground to lift him. “Get out my sight,” he says. “If I see either of you here again, I won’t stop him.”  
   
After he’s sure the men have left the Myrmidons borders, he enters the tent and Achilles looks up at him from where he’s sitting on the sheepskin, whittling.  
   
“Was that necessary?” he asks, crossing his arms.  
   
“Was what necessary?”  
   
Patroclus heaves a sigh and scrubs a hand over his face. “That _spectacle_ ,” he hisses. “Those were Odysseus’ men, Achilles -- not Trojans!”  
   
“Patroclus, I’m your captain. It is my job is to protect my men – from Trojans and bloody Achaeans alike,” he retaliates, the angry spark in his eyes from earlier returning.  
   
“I can protect myself.”  
   
Achilles scoffs. “Oh yes, the odds quite looked in your favor.”  
   
The tent falls silent and Achilles turns his attention back to the object in his palm.  
   
Patroclus uncrosses his arms and sits down beside him. “You almost killed him,” he says, voice low and still a bit raspy. “What has been going on with you lately?”  
   
“I don’t know what you mean.”  
   
”You’ve been…” and makes an elaborate gesture. “With Briseis, and now the emissaries – you’re acting...” he almost says, _irrationally_ _jealous and possessive_ , but the embarrassed expression that sweeps across Achilles’ face stops him. “Off,” he settles on instead. “You’ve always confided in me, when something is wrong. What’s changed?”  
   
“Nothing’s changed, Patroclus. I trust you more than anyone,” Achilles says, eyes focused on the motion of his blade. “All is well.”  
   
“Please Achilles,” Patroclus pleads, placing a hand on Achilles’ forearm to stop him. He does stop, but Patroclus doesn’t remove his hand. Achilles’ fingers flex around the blade and Patroclus waits with bated breath. He needs _something_.  
   
Achilles looks down at his hand and then up at Patroclus. “There is nothing wrong,” he says firmly. Then he stands up and presses the wick of each of the candles between his index and thumb, drenching the tent in darkness. “We need to rest, there’s battle tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a bunch to my wonderful beta, [capital-punk](http://capital-punk.tumblr.com/), who has basically taken on the role of quasi-therapist as well, even if they don't realize. 
> 
> So, the original 20k/four chapters plan is still looking pretty good, I'll be sure once I near the end of the next chapter. 
> 
> Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, minor character death. Additionally: may elicit a strong desire to bang these emotionally repressed morons' heads together.

It’s been over a week since Patroclus has seen anything other than the bone-tired, dismal dispositions of ailing men.  
   
A plague had broken out among the Achaeans just as the cherry blossoms began to bloom on the fertile soil of the outlying cities.  
   
The search for a remedy has been dubbed futile, and so the extra men who’d been called on for aid spend their time more practically; for preventative measures -- making sure that the camps remained uncontaminated – or simply to make sure that the afflicted men spend their final days as comfortable as possible.  
   
The men who retain medicinal knowledge and were not bound to the battlefield – only three amongst the Myrmidons – provide aid in the tent. Which is how, despite his objections, Patroclus found himself beside Machaon, concocting various mixtures to alleviate the suffering of the dying men.  
   
He’s shuffling through these same bottles when two soldiers barge in through the tent flaps. They’re carrying a wounded man between the two of them and Machaon is already shouldering past him, directing the men to follow him through to a section veiled off from the infected men.  
   
Machaon returns with the men moments later. He watches the soldiers shake his hand before leaving, and Machaon makes his way towards him.  
   
He wets a cloth and wrings the water out, then hands it to Patroclus. “Keep pressure on the wound, I’ll be there in a moment.”  
   
As Patroclus approaches the cot, his steps falter when he sees the wounded soldier. He is, in fact, not a man. It’s a boy, much younger than himself. He is well maintained; groomed and wellkept in a way that the established soldiers no longer bother to be. It’s almost certain that he arrived with the recent fleet of infantry persons.  
   
He drops to his knees beside the adolescent, pressing the warm cloth to the puncture; a deep gash that slices through his left nipple. The boy gasps for air, tears welling in his eyes as he looks up at Patroclus. He could not be older than sixteen.  
   
Patroclus uses his free hand to push back the damp hair matted at the boy’s forehead. He runs his hand to the nape of his neck, cradling his head softly.  
   
“Where are you from, brave soldier?” he asks, voice steady and soft.  
   
“I-I-I. P-lease. I don’t...I don’t want to die,” he chokes out, and Patroclus shushes him, stroking this neck softly.  
   
“You will be okay,” he says. “Now, where are you from?”  
   
“Th-Thessaly.” He coughs and crimson blood dribbles from his mouth. The boy’s eyes go wide and he tries to sit up, but the pressure of Patroclus’ hands keep him in place.  
   
“You must stop moving,” Patroclus reprimands, then, more softly, “Thessaly is gorgeous. I am from Phthia myself.”  
   
_This_ , Patroclus thinks, _this_ is the part of war that he does not understand. Blood, gore, and carnage he knows and knows well, but the loss of innocence is a difficult concept to comprehend.  
   
“This war is almost over,” he whispers. “You will be able to return home soon. Just in time for the summer harvest, too.”  
   
He does not look up when Machaon quietly slips in. Patroclus lifts the boy’s head into his lap. “Shut your eyes,” he murmurs, waiting until the boy complies to continue.  
   
“I can see it now – crisp air, stream water rippling…a bounty of fruit. And the molasses – oh, certainly the sweetest around. Wouldn’t you agree?” he asks, and the boy nods. Patroclus looks up, beckons for Machaon who’d been waiting patiently at the partition.  
   
“My fondest memories of Thessaly were during her fine summers. The terrain is mountainous, sure, but mornings spent playing in her sun cannot be matched,” he whispers, stroking the boy’s cheek gently. He realizes that this boy’s childhood was only months ago, not a distant memory like his own.  
   
“It was beautiful --” he says, cutting off abruptly as the Machaon lodges the metal through the back of the boy’s head; he goes limp beneath Patroclus’ hands. 

***

He is washing his hands of the blood when Machaon approaches him. “The wound was fatal,” is what he says.  
   
“I know.” Patroclus scrubs roughly at the reddened skin beneath his fingernails. He’s been rubbing at the same spot for minutes now -- the blood stubbornly refuses to come out.  
   
Machaon places one of his hands on Patroclus’ forearm, stopping his frantic scrubbing, and places the other on his shoulder. He leans forward. “It was the easiest death he could have hoped for, thanks to you.”  
   
With a final pat on his back, Machaon turns to leave.  
   
Patroclus heaves a sigh. “Machaon, wait.”  
   
He lets go of his white-knuckle grip on the edge of the basin to turn and face the physician.  
   
“I am returning to battle tomorrow,” he says.  
   
Machaon gives him an appraising look, and for a moment Patroclus thinks he’s going to protest. But he only nods. “You serve your countrymen well, Patroclus. Regardless of where or how you do it.”

***

“Where is your mind?”  
   
Patroclus doesn’t answer, just lies back, head dropping onto Achilles abdomen. A hand comes up to rake through his hair. He stares at the ceiling of their tent.  
   
“The boy still?” Achilles prompts.  
   
“He was too young to die.”  
   
“It is war; men will die, some old, others young. They know this.”  
   
“If they knew they were destined for the underworld months after arrival, I am sure they would have thought twice.”  
   
“You wouldn’t have.”  
   
Patroclus shakes his head, shutting his eyes and leaning into the soft touch. “That’s different.”  
   
“I know my fate. I am still here.”  
   
“That is also different. You’re destined for glory.”  
   
“But you are not.”  
   
Patroclus swallows. “I do not fight for glory.” He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Achilles. “I fight for you.”  
   
Achilles looks down at him. His knuckles trail the side of Patroclus’ face; thumb swiping over his cheekbone.  
   
“For whom will you fight when I’m gone?”  
   
“Still for you. Always for you.”

***

The battle is grueling, but Patroclus fights well. The Greeks are high-hearted and morale is up – the men are aware that another victory looms just over the horizon.  
   
Patroclus feels the familiar rush of adrenaline course through his veins as he leaps out of the chariot; shield tossed over his back and javelin firm in his grip.  
   
He hits the ground hard; eyes set on a broad chested Trojan. The man grins when he spots Patroclus, already lifting his spear to toss it. Patroclus tugs at his shield-strap and angles his body to right. The spear comes at him full-force, but only manages to graze the top layer of the bronze shield covering his side.  
   
The man draws out his dagger and holds his own shield at his torso, but by then Patroclus has already anticipated the move, tossing his javelin so that it pierces the man’s upper leg.  
   
It’s hand-to-hand combat after that, Patroclus with the clear advantage. It’s only moments before his dagger lodges into the man’s body – the juncture where his neck meets his collarbone. A lethal hit – and there’s the sound of bone cracking, then of blood gurgling up through his mouth as he falls into the dust.  
   
“Patroclus, on your left!”  
   
He turns around to find another Trojan charging at him. He times the advance and swerves with seconds to spare. He knocks the man loose, granting Patroclus enough time to flip the spear lying on the ground into the air with his foot. He catches it and takes a few steps back, only to advance forward once more, full speed and straight into the soldier’s back, right between his shoulder blades.  
   
The man falls onto his knees and Patroclus rams the spear downward, watching as it pierces the breastplate of his armor. He drops to the ground, deep scarlet pooling and staining the ground around him.  
   
“You must watch your back.” Achilles’ voice rings loud in his ear as he shoulders past Patroclus, heading straight into the chaotic clash of armor of the front line.  
   
The battle rages on, and the bloodlust does not cease -- both Achaeans and Trojans fight hard and with splendor -- some for wives or children, others for mothers, and many for all three.  
   
Patroclus, for his country and captain. 

***

Patroclus is wiping the sweat from his forehead when he first feels it. The electric shock runs down his spine, and the heavy stampede of cavalry warns him of a turn in the tide of battle. 

The throng of Trojans is heading towards them, and it’s immediately followed by a flurry of Bronze armor. The Myrmidons are quickly falling out of rank, men in shock by the sight of the approaching chariots.  
   
Patroclus looks around frantically, spotting Achilles in the center of three great Trojan warriors.  
   
He’s moving before he thinks about it, tossing his spear straight into one man’s back. He falls to the dust, and Achilles handles the other two with practiced ease.  
   
Achilles looks up at him, and Patroclus signals for him to control the men.  
   
It’s a blur after that. All he can truly recall is the zeal in Achilles’ eyes as he watches his men scatter. He yells, furious and scolding.  
   
“On me! Prepare to hold back cavalry -- any man caught running will answer to me. Fight, because this is what you’re here for, Myrmidons. Fight!”  
   
The rage in his voice is enough to shame any soldier, and the men quickly fall into line. The Myrmidon phalanx manages to hold back the chariots and the Trojans retreat with their horses for fear of having their armor stripped and bodies dismembered. 

***

The battle winds down after the confrontation with the cavalry. It’s near sunset, and Patroclus is in high spirits.  
   
It lasts until someone gets him in a vice grip.  
   
“What in the name of Zeus!” He shouts, struggling against the hold. He’s being pulled back into the Achaean ranks, away from the tumult.  
   
Patroclus pulls away roughly once they’re out of the danger zone, eyes darting quickly from Odysseus - who’d dragged him - to the short, dark-haired boy standing beside him.  
   
The boy is wringing his fingers together nervously.  
   
“Machaon needs you, the –“  
   
Patroclus lets out a derisive snort. “Have you all but lost your mind?”  
   
“Patroclus, please. You do not understand. The plague has spread to the aides – the infected men are dropping like flies, and the wounded soldiers are not receiving the treatment they need,” the boy pleads.  
   
Patroclus swallows hard, the metallic odor of freshly spilled blood filling his nostrils. He wants to fight; he wants to be on the battlefield right now, not inside a ruddy tent. He needs to be.  
   
“No.”  
   
The boys face falls, and Odysseus clamps him on the shoulder, stepping in between them. “There will be many more battles,” he says. “The Myrmidons need you, Patroclus.”  
   
“The Myrmidons need me _here_ ,” he counters.  
   
Odysseus shakes his head. “It’s only a matter of time before the Trojans retreat back behind their city walls. We’re holding strong, you see that. Go now.”  
   
Patroclus hesitates. He turns back to watch the battle; can spot Achilles amidst the clatter of heavy armor and well-forged helmets. The feeling of longing settles back into his chest.  
   
“I will tell Achilles you’ve returned. Go,” he repeats, pushing at his shoulder.  
   
Patroclus grits his teeth and tosses his javelin and shield at the boy’s feet and shoves his helmet into his hands. He leads the way back. 

***

By the time they reach the medical tent, Patroclus’ adrenaline levels have regulated themselves and the aggression he’d felt earlier has mostly dissipated. 

Patroclus can see the tension in Machaon’s shoulders ease when he spots him.  
   
“Patroclus,” he breathes out – partially surprised but mostly grateful. His eyes are red and his face weary as he approaches Patroclus. “I need you to check the Myrmidon camp,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Some men are keeping the plagued in their tents. Their hearts and minds are clouded with grief. This…this attempt to stave off the inevitable -- it’s causing more harm than good. The plague is beginning to spread through the camps.”  
   
Machaon pauses. “You are the only one with the authority to do this.”  
   
It’s not true. Not exactly. Patroclus doesn’t quite have the authority to barge into the men’s tents and demand that they heed his words.  
   
Except, well, he _does_.  
   
He is Achilles’ brother in arms. And it was a mutually understood fact among the Myrmidons that crossing Patroclus was almost worse than crossing Achilles himself.  
   
To Achilles, rage knew no bounds where Patroclus was involved. 

***

It’s almost sun down and he’s exhausted, but with the majority of the men on the battlefield, the task is much easier to complete. Most of the tents are empty, and if they aren’t, the sickly stench and bilious aura is a dead giveaway.  
   
Patroclus walks into another tent unannounced and immediately feels unnerved by the macabre aura.  
   
The man by the washbasin immediately turns around; lips awkward as they attempt a welcoming smile.  
   
“Yes?” he asks, gaze flickering with recognition as he eyes Patroclus.  
   
Patroclus takes another step inside. He looks around and his eyes come to rest on the man lying on a cot, a thin sheet covering his body.  
   
The other man follows Patroclus’ gaze. “He is fine, just a slight fever.”  
   
“What is your name?”  
   
“Alexius.”  
   
“Well, Alexius,” he says, taking another step inside, towards the sick soldier. He sees Alexius’ hand hover over his hip, where his sword rests against his hip. “You should take him to see Machaon.”  
   
Alexius chuckles nervously. “He has much more serious things to worry about, I am sure.” He glances over his shoulder at the unmoving lump. “Myron will recover well here.”  
   
He turns to look at Patroclus again, moving to block his view. “What can I do for you?”  
   
“He is suffering here,” Patroclus says softly. Alexius swallows hard, and Patroclus can see the instant that he realizes that it’s over.  
   
The moment that follows is heavy, and time seems to slow down. Alexius nods, tears threatening to stream down his face.  
   
Patroclus watches as the man walks over to his friend. He falls to his knees beside Myron and runs a hand through his hair. Alexius leans forward, placing a gentle kiss on the sweat slick forehead. He whispers words that Patroclus cannot hear, but the creases in Myron’s forehead flatten out, and his lips twitch upwards.  
   
Patroclus takes a step back, suddenly feeling as though he’s imposing on an intimate moment.  
   
When the realization hits him, it happens too suddenly for him to suppress the thought. On the brink of death, it is only Achilles that would be able to draw a smile out of him.  
   
When their lips touch, Patroclus looks away, chest filling with admiration and envy.  
   
He walks out of the tent, looking around for someone to help Alexius carry Myron back to the medical tent.  
   
Patroclus stops abruptly, spotting the boy from earlier running towards him, face flushed red and tunic sliding off his shoulder from the force of the wind.  
   
He stops in front of Patroclus, hands bracing themselves on his knees as he tries to catch his breath. “It-It’s Achilles. He’s…hurt.”  
   
Everything comes to a skidding halt, then. Patroclus tries to swallow the lump that’s formed in his throat, but it’s huge and his throat is dry, and it feels like none of his senses are functioning properly anymore.  
   
“Where is he?” he demands, when his vision is no longer spotty. The boy draws in another large breath, unable to respond. Patroclus grips the boy’s tunic roughly, planting a hand on his shoulder when he stumbles. “ _Where?_ ”  
   
“M-Machaon,” he sutters.  
   
The tight pressure around Patroclus' heart eases a bit, because if Achilles was in the medical tent, than he wasn't on the battlefield. He wasn't on the battlefield where filthy Trojan paws would claw at him - strike when he was vulnerable and rob him of his armor and dignity. No, Achilles was _here_ , where Patroclus could --

Patroclus breaks off into a sprint. 

***

“Where is he?” he asks, too loud and too frantic when he enters the tent.  
   
Machaon takes in his disheveled look and pins his brows together. “Patroclus, calm down.”  
   
“Machaon, tell me where he is!”  
   
“Through the flaps…” He begins, and Patroclus does not hear the rest of his sentence as he storms through the partition.  
   
He finds Achilles sprawled languidly across the couch closest to the partition. He’s humming a familiar tune that Patroclus can’t quite make out over the sound of his own rushing blood.  
   
Achilles’ head turns towards him as he comes in. He smiles lazily, sitting up. “Did you decide to attend to every soldier in the Myrmidon army before making your way here?”  
   
Patroclus stares.  
   
The silence stretches on as Patroclus’ heart rate begins to slow, and Achilles’ smile falters. “What’s the matter?”  
   
Patroclus staggers forward, falling to his knees in front of Achilles, between the V of his legs. There’s a cloth wound recklessly around his abdomen, crimson blood seeping through the left side.  
   
Achilles tenses as Patroclus nuzzles into his chest, hands running up and down Achilles’ bloodstained skin.  
   
“I thought –“ he chokes out, burying his face further up, into Achilles’ collarbone. “I thought you…that I would not have the chance to say goodbye.”  
   
He trails off and it’s a long, drawn out moment before Achilles’ arms come up to wrap around his shoulders.  
   
“It’s only a flesh wound,” he reassures, and Patroclus shakes his head.  
   
It was then that Patroclus understood the magnitude of the prophecy. He was forced to come to terms with the fact that his innate compulsion to protect and love Achilles is worthless in the face of the Gods.  
   
“Someday, it won’t be,” he says, leaning back on his haunches to look up at Achilles. His own skin and tunic are smeared with blood and Patroclus isn’t sure whether it’s the metallic stench or his own thoughts that are making him nauseous. “What will I do then?” 

***

Hours later, after Patroclus dresses Achilles’ wound and finishes his rounds, after the sky turns into haze of deep blue and black; gold specks scattered across it and the moon a waning crescent, Patroclus visits Briseis.

He feels guilty, with his time divided between the plague, the war, and Achilles, he has not had much time to see her.  
   
When he enters her tent he finds her sitting on the cot, dress splayed out around her and hands moving with caution over the piece of clothing she seems to be mending. It’s a task she’s clearly not accustomed to, but Patroclus thinks it suits her.  
   
She looks up when he clears his throat. “Patroclus,” she says. She puts aside the darning tools and pats the spot beside her. Patroclus sits.  
   
“You look exhausted.”  
   
Patroclus nods. “It’s been a long day.”  
   
“Achilles was wounded.”  
   
“You say that as though that news weren’t the highlight of your day,” he laughs – hollow and raspy.  
   
Briseis angles her body towards him. “I may not be fond of Achilles, but that does not mean I would enjoy what brings you anguish. Not when you’ve been so kind to me.”  
   
Patroclus doesn’t respond, and Briseis continues. “I know you care for him. I know how you must have felt.”  
   
Patroclus laughs again. He wants to tell her that she couldn’t possibly understand. That no one could understand that kind of terror. It was as if, without any warning, everything he’d been living for had come crashing down around him -- and even though the claims were spurious, someday they wouldn’t be. Patroclus wasn’t so sure he could cope with that.  
   
“How did you…with your husband?”  
   
If Briseis is surprised by the comparison, she doesn’t show it. “I did not love him,” she replies a matter-of-factly.  
   
“And if you did?” Patroclus looks down at his lap, where his hands are wrung together so tightly that his olive skin has blanched. “If you loved him more than you could bear to think? What would you have done?”  
   
There’s a lull in the conversation, and Patroclus can hear his blood rushing and heart hammering in his chest. It’s as close to a verbal acknowledgement of the truth as he’s been, and he’s afraid that he’s made it all real. That he’s no longer going to be capable of denying what he’s always known.  
   
“I do not know,” Briseis says, and then, “I’m sorry, Patroclus.” 

***

The traces of blue in the sky are gone when Patroclus leaves Briseis. It’s an eerily silent night; the death and agony that’s loomed over the Achaean army has left everyone drained. Sleep has become a luxury that many can no longer afford – the men get it whenever and however they can.  
   
When he enters their tent however, he finds it drenched in warm light. Achilles is standing at the table, prodding at some fruit in a bowl. Whether looking for something to eat or getting rid of the rotten lot, Patroclus isn’t sure.  
   
Achilles doesn’t stop when Patroclus approaches him. He leans his hip against the table and places a small vial filled with liquid on top of it, pushing it towards Achilles.  
   
“For the pain,” he says, glancing at the wound he’d dressed earlier.  
   
Achilles hums, picking up an apricot and offering it to Patroclus.  
   
He shakes his head and Achilles shrugs, placing it back into the bowl.  
   
“You should be resting.”  
   
Achilles picks up the vial and uncorks it. He sniffs the concoction, nose wrinkling in distaste. “This smells foul,” he says.  
   
“That probably means it will work,” he replies. Achilles hums again, sounding unconvinced. He puts the vial down and looks at Patroclus.  
   
“Where have you been?”  
   
Patroclus pins his brows together in question. “What do you mean? I was at the medical tent.”  
   
“Battle ended hours ago. You never spend this long there.”  
   
“Yes, well.” He lifts a shoulder. “There is a plague. Men are dying at twice the speed.”  
   
Achilles stares at him with his lips drawn tight and shoulders pushed back defiantly – a stance that Patroclus has come to associate with aggravation. “I’ve always been able to tell when you’re lying to me.”  
   
Patroclus turns away from Achilles, resting his weight against the edge of the table. He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I went to see Briseis.”  
   
Achilles does not answer, and Patroclus pushes himself off the table to cross the tent to the water bowl. He crouches to rinse his hands and face.  
   
He uses the cloth on the edge of the bowl to dry his hands.  
   
When Achilles does speak, his tone is neutral. “Are you bedding her?” he questions, and it seems more like an accusation.  
   
Patroclus stops with the cloth halfway to his face. He sets his jaw but does not turn to face Achilles. It takes incredible effort to tamp down the desire to scream, and he breathes through his nostrils to quench his anger.  
   
“Do you think so low of me?” he spits out. “Do you think that I would bed your war prize? That I would do anything to disgrace your honor?”  
   
Achilles slams a hand down onto the table. “What reason is there for you to be in her tent then?”  
   
“She is afraid and a good woman.”  
   
Achilles scoffs.  
   
“She is royalty.”  
   
“Was. She _was_ royalty.”  
   
The flippant tone settles heavily in Patroclus’ chest, lodged there like a lump he can’t swallow. He chuckles, tossing the cloth to the side and standing to face Achilles.  
   
“Yes, my, how could I forget? She _was_ royalty,” he amends. He crosses the distance between them. “Right before you slaughtered her entire family.”  
   
“Patroclus –“  
   
“Brother. Mother and father. Husband. All gone at your merciless hands.”  
   
“Hold your tongue –“  
   
“And then you left her, would not even marry her, like a _coward_ —“  
   
Achilles’ hands grab at the material of his chiton, shoving him against the table. The bowl of fruit clatters to the ground, and Achilles grabs Patroclus’ wrists, pressing them against the edge of the table.  
   
The sudden force causes them both to fall silent.  
   
Patroclus turns his head away, and when he writhes beneath Achilles’ hold, he feels the rough texture of the table scratch against the delicate skin of his wrist.  
   
“I care for you like no other. You know this. But do not mistake that for weakness.”  
   
Patroclus wants to spit, wants to scream that Achilles’ inability to let himself be vulnerable even for a moment is why they’re arguing to begin with, but he knows that the only thing waiting at the end of that road is more trouble.  
   
Achilles considers him for a moment. He leans forward, his breath steady and hot against Patroclus’ ear.  
   
“You reek of fear,” he says, and Patroclus can feel the cruel grin that accompanies his words. He grits his teeth and swallows.  
   
“Better to reek of fear than the blood of the innocent,” he spits, and he hates that his own breaths still come out ragged and heavy. He twists his wrists, but Achilles’ grasp tightens.  
   
Achilles draws back and Patroclus turns to meet his eyes. “No one is innocent in times of war.”  
   
“Spoken like a true warrior,” Patroclus says, but the phrase does not hold its usual merit. The connotation is clear. It’s cruel, unfair even, but Patroclus is too exhausted to care. “Sometimes it feels as though all you understand is the art of war.”  
   
Achilles’ expression is blank as he loosens his grip. Patroclus uses the opportunity to wrench away from his grasp. He shoves past Achilles, past the tent flaps, and into the late evening.  
   
Achilles does not follow him.

***

Patroclus returns late that night.  
   
He expects to find Achilles asleep, but instead he walks into dimly lit quiet; the only sound coming from Achilles’ sharp, thin blade as he whittles. He does not look up when Patroclus enters, continues to carve intricate crescents and other garnishes into the thick wood.  
   
Patroclus grants himself a moment of indulgent staring, never quite having enough willpower to deny his fascination with Achilles’ hands and their abilities. He’s never understood how the same hands, blood stained and calloused, could also be so delicate and graceful.  
   
The thought lies heavy on his heart. Patroclus tugs his tunic off, the sudden wave of exhaustion and frustration that wash over him leave him craving the warmth of the wool covered ground. He drapes his tunic across the makeshift table and crosses the tent.  
   
He falls to his knees to dip his hands into the bowl of chilled water. He sits adjacent to where Achilles lies, and Patroclus can see the Achilles’ gaze shift towards him in his periphery.  
   
He scrubs his hands carefully before leaning over the bowl, cupping his hands together and lifting them to rinse his face. The cold is refreshing.  
   
He feels the grime of the day fall away with the used water, into the bowl. He sits back on his haunches, running his wet hands over his face. He hears the shuffle of Achilles’ feet before he sees him.  
   
He opens his eyes, tilts his head, and finds himself staring down at Achilles’ bare feet, his toned calves, and the hem of his tunic. He very pointedly does not look up.  
   
Achilles crouches down, places a hand at the nape of Patroclus’ neck. It’s delicate, and he does not try to force Patroclus to meet his gaze. Instead, his hand squeezes gently, and then his fingers trail lightly down Patroclus’ naked spine. “What are you doing?” he gasps, but the protest sounds weak even to his own ears.  
   
The chill that Patroclus was feeling before is now gone, and instead the warmth of Achilles’ touch spread from his back to the rest of his body, until it’s no longer warmth, but a scathing heat.  
   
Achilles’ nimble fingers trail back up to the nape his neck; he grips Patroclus’ hair between his fingers firmly. Patroclus shuts his eyes, feels the blood rush southward.  
   
He’s stark naked, displayed and vulnerable, and somehow that knowledge only makes his situation worse. He knows Achilles can see, it’s impossible _not to_ , but he says nothing. Maybe because he senses Patroclus’ humiliation, or maybe – and more likely – because he knows that if he does, there’s no going back.  
   
Then Achilles’ lips are at his ear, brushing over it lightly. “I wish you would understand. Why I do the things I do,” he says, quiet and desperate. Patroclus doesn’t dare move.  
   
The moment seems to drag on, Achilles’ breath moist and loud in his ear. Then, he drags his lips downward, and presses a light kiss to the sensitive skin between Patroclus’ jaw and neck. Patroclus’ ears and face flush red. Achilles’ fingers dig into the back of his skull, but his voice is still as tender as before. “Or, if not understand, at least trust.”  
   
He’s gone after that – muttering something about Patroclus needing to rest before tomorrow’s battle, the tent flap drops heavily behind him, and the last of his words are lost, leaving silence in his wake.  
   
Patroclus would swear that he imagined this, but his body betrays him; his trembling hands, high-colored reflection, and, most blatant, his growing arousal. He stutters out a shaky breath, shaking his head furiously to come back to himself. He grips the bowl and lifts it, dumping the cool water over his head.  
   
Patroclus lets the empty bowl drop onto the soft ground. He crawls across the sand and lets his body fall wearily onto the sheepskin. His eyelids flutter shut easily, neither his body nor mind able to fight the fatigue that washes over him. 

*** 

Patroclus wakes to sound of Achilles' armor clanging as he puts it on.  
   
He jolts upright, and the sudden movement makes Achilles pause. He glances up from where he’s down on one knee, tying the leather to bind his greave. He at least has the benevolence to look embarrassed, but it’s gone as soon as Achilles breaks eye contact to return to his task.  
   
Patroclus cannot recall the last time Achilles put on his own armor. He’s always seemed content to depend on Patroclus’ dexterous and familiar hands. The thought of abandoning this ritual makes something ugly lurch in his chest.  
   
Patroclus stands, almost makes his way over to Achilles before becoming aware of his own nakedness. They’ve been naked around each other before, more often than not in fact, but things feel different now. Patroclus realizes that the boundaries of propriety between them have been tested and blurred, and now neither of them knows what to do with this knowledge.  
   
He pulls on a chiton, but does not bother fastening it at the shoulder.  
   
His steps are slow, wary, and still rickety with tension from last night’s events. He reaches Achilles just as he’s standing, body bare aside from a flimsy tunic and his greaves. They’re chest to chest, and Achilles stares down at him, his gaze questioning.  
   
Patroclus turns away from the loaded look. He reaches for one of the polished arm guards, and looks up at Achilles through his lashes. It’s an apology, and Patroclus hopes that Achilles will let them move past this.  
   
There’s a beat of silence. Achilles’ eyes bore into his own, and Patroclus recognizes the look on his face. One of meticulous calculating and strategizing – his mind trying to work out the best course of action in the shortest time frame.  
   
Often, Patroclus mulls over Achilles’ stoicism towards him. Achilles lives for glory and blood, has never had any qualms about admitting that to anyone. And yet, it’s rare when the younger man acts for the sake of his own happiness when Patroclus is involved. Often, his critical thinking and reason prevail over any exhibition of personal satisfaction.  
   
So when there’s an arm extended into Patroclus’ line of vision, an acceptance, he appreciates the seemingly small action for what it is – Achilles giving in, just a little bit.  
   
He reaches forward, but before he can do anything, Achilles grabs him by the elbows. The action is abrupt, and Patroclus gasps as the arm guard falls, clattering against the table before dropping onto the sandy ground.  
   
Patroclus looks up, and Achilles’ eyes are wild with fury, fixated downward. He follows Achilles’ line of vision, and it’s only then that he notices the red welts that have formed on his own wrists – a result of yesterday’s brawl.  
   
He tries to tug away, to cover them up somehow – to strip Achilles of the memory. Because for all that he’s already forgiven him, it means nothing if Achilles is not willing to forgive himself. “It’s all right,” he whispers, though he knows it’s futile.  
   
Achilles clenches his jaw. “It’s not.”  
   
“It’s forgotten. It’s in the past,” he presses, ducking his head so that Achilles is forced to look at him.  
   
 Achilles meets his gaze, swallows, and slowly releases his hold. The guilt is still radiating off of him in waves, and it’s such a peculiar sight that Patroclus feels momentarily nonplussed.  
   
He bends down to pick up the arm guard and returns to the task of arming, desperately trying to find some modicum of familiar order amidst this chaos.  
   
And it is familiar, but also suddenly much more intimate. Patroclus is aware of every touch, every brush of his fingers against naked flesh. He moves swiftly, but with a novel, meticulous care. He attempts to ignore the newfound fascination Achilles seems to have developed with his hands.  
   
When he’s finished, he retreats to fetch Achilles’ helmet. He’s slow about it, taking a moment to collect himself before returning.  
   
He hands it over, pauses with helmet as a barrier between them. His free hand reaches up, unbidden, and tugs at a strand of Achilles’ hair. It rests past his shoulders now, greasy and listless – a consequence of years of negligence and volatile weather conditions. Patroclus is caught off guard by how much he misses Achilles’ curls -- loose and tinted brown at the cusp of autumn and all through the winter, yet glistening gold and coiled tight during the summers; but always, always tinged with a blazing vitality.  
   
“Your hair, it’s gotten so long.”  
   
He lets go of the strand he’d been thumbing and combs his fingers through Achilles’ hair. He blinks slowly; already aware that he’s pushing again, too soon after they’d crossed so many lines. He clears his throat; an embarrassed flush making its way down his neck.  
   
Patroclus pushes the helmet firmly into Achilles’ hold and takes a few steps back, the smile on his face too taut to even seem natural.  
   
“Will you cut it for me? Tonight?”  
   
Patroclus blinks. He’s overwhelmed by an onslaught of emotion because for the first time, it feels as though -- for all their pain and all their grief -- their toil has not been in vain. Patroclus nods his assent.  
   
“Achilles,” he calls, just as the Achaean turns to depart. He turns back and tilts his head in question.  
   
Patroclus doesn’t say ‘ _best of luck’_ or _‘be careful,’_ because Achilles does not need luck and he is never careful. Instead, Patroclus presses his hand against his stomach, scrapes his leg, and bows.  
   
When he looks up, Achilles’ lips are pulled tight in a carefully neutral expression, but his eyes are soft and warm. He nods cordially in response and then disappears through the tent flaps.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [vernares](http://vernares.com/)


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